


time, curious time

by blueseasandchestnuts



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (for the most part), Community: hp_drizzle, Fluff, Getting Together, HP Drizzle Fest 2020, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Not Canon Compliant, Sirius Black Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25842931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueseasandchestnuts/pseuds/blueseasandchestnuts
Summary: "Do you still remember how it started?" he asks."How could I forget?" you ask back.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 11
Kudos: 37
Collections: HP Drizzle Fest 2020





	time, curious time

Autumn is for heavy rain and howling wind and for air charged up with barely contained excitement. It's the thick threaded blanket of quiet bewilderment covering you, the small crease between your eyebrows at having clearly been left out of a _Big Adventure_ for the first time in four years, the nagging feeling of self-doubt ever present at the back of your mind. 

It's being rushed through dinner and half-carried out of the Hall and up into the dormitory in a flurry of swishing robes and mad grins. It's being told to just sit there and _admire,_ and it's a fleeting, barely there shared look of apprehension between the three of them before it happens. 

It's a stag standing proud and a scurrying rat and a dog wagging its tail, it's wide eyes and quiet gasps, it's blurred vision and wet eyelashes, and it's understanding it all, but not quite believing it. It's uncontrollable laughter when you finally, _finally_ grasp what it means, and it's drowning in joy sitting on a cold floor and knowing you're home. 

Autumn is disbelief and awe and gratitude. 

Winter is for the warmth that spreads from tip to toe when you're all sitting together, drinking hot butterbeer in a busy pub and discussing the best places for charmed mistletoe. It's staring at the froth left on his face, making him look like a cat, and getting a stinging hex to the ears for voicing that thought out loud. 

It's snow crunching under your boots, it's walking aimlessly around Hogsmeade streets, and falling gracelessly on icy pavements, and being pushed down purposefully in the thick snow. It's making snow angels together and laughing until your cheeks hurt and your voice is hoarse, and it's your breath catching when you look at him and you're still laying down, but you're falling, falling, _falling_. 

It's streetlights casting their sickly yellow light, it's cerise coloured cheeks and soft beanies and _accidentally_ forgetting your gloves and him saying _take my hand, wouldn't want your fingers to fall off from frostbite_. It's shivering from the cold (or is it?) and it's large fluffy cotton specks settling on your clothes, and your breath misting, and your faces alight with joy. 

Winter is excitement and realisation and yearning. 

Spring is for sneaking into the kitchens for a slice or two of rhubarb and custard tart, and laying by the edge of the Forest, skiving off History of Magic and claiming you're studying for more important OWLs. It's for blades of grass tickling your wrists and his rhythmic breathing barely audible above the breeze, and for claiming you're too tired and you'll just have a kip, and resting your head on his thighs. 

It's the sun and his fingers running gently through your hair, so gently you can't be sure you're not imagining it at all. It's opening your eyes and seeing his soft smile, and it's realising oh, you _do_ know that look on his face, it's the same silent longing look that James throws at Lily, except now it's _him_ looking at _you_ like _that_. It's the blossoming trees and the warmth in your chest when you allow yourself to hope that it's real and that you're not just reading too much into it, and it's the silent surprise in his eyes when you're getting up and leaning in. 

It's time stretching thin and your stomach doing a handspring and your palms getting clammy and oh, it's your lips touching for barely long enough and it's resting your forehead against his. It's your noses bumping together every now and then, and teeth colliding, and it's all a bit too awkward, and it's far from perfect. It's kissing him again and again anyway, until your head spins and you're out of breath and then some more. It's him tucking his fingers under your chin and pushing your head up ever so gently and it's his eyes shining and it's a brief moment wondering why — _how_ — you could have ever had any doubts. 

Spring is hope and laughter and amazement. 

Summer is for walking barefoot on an empty Gower beach and for the odd off-shade of white that comes with using cheap sunscreen and for the coarse sand that you can't quite get rid of for weeks. It's for spending late afternoons just basking in the sun, it's the foamy water swishing around your ankles, it's vaguely wishing you could summon some ice lollies and grumbling that you might melt sooner rather than later, _please remember me when that happens_. 

It's for his shite, wannabe romantic, over the top lines about the twilight reflected in your eyes, and _how could he ever forget you_ , it's not quite managing to keep a straight face or stifle your laughter, rolling your eyes, but still intertwining your fingers. It's the utter feeling of betrayal that you allegedly induce in him when you drag him just a little bit further into the gentle waves, and it's swimming until the night grows too dark and you grow too tired and you have to head back. 

Summer is exploration and wonder and overwhelming joy. 

Summer is for holding him in your arms decades later on that same beach and him asking _do you still remember how it started_ and it's you brushing greying curls away from his shoulder so you can rest your chin without being tickled and it's pulling him just a little bit closer and laughing quietly, throwing his words back at him. _How could I forget_. It's closing your eyes, still smiling and listening to the seagulls screeching and feeling his pulse against your cheek. It's the contentment coursing through you and the overwhelming relief at the thought that, in spite of all the odds stacked against you both, you have made it through it all, through unimaginable pain and tragedy and loss, but you're still somehow together, tied by an invisible string pulling at your very souls. 

And _he_ is love and warmth and serenity. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to B for the beta work and to the mods for organising this fest.


End file.
